


filtering the sense (of all you could’ve said)

by figmentof



Series: Biology of Universal Cruelty [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, takes place somewhere between 4x04 Brotherhood and 4x08 Point of Origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figmentof/pseuds/figmentof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold fully deciphered the way John’s fingers slid from his knuckles to his wrist at the underground. Their synced code from ages ago, and he knew. John desperately wanted, he <i>craved</i>, and Harold’s already so far gone that he never declines John’s demands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	filtering the sense (of all you could’ve said)

Harold is standing in John’s (or more appropriately, Detective Riley’s) room at his dingy half vacant apartment, his expression unreadable from the dim street lights, yet John could feel those wary eyes on him. His hands inevitably fail him and fumble as he reaches toward Harold’s belt and sinks to his knees. There’s a vast, unfathomable void between now and the last time they’ve done this, the last time they’ve been in a room alone for reasons outside of their life saving routine. The emptiness leaves a hollow pang in John’s chest.

Harold stands in John’s room, his thighs brushing against the end of John’s bed, pants pulled down to his ankles, his cock slowly rising to curve along his abdomen. John eases him down to sit on the bed, leans forward to press his cheek to Harold’s fully covered stomach, and breathes in. He violently rids Harold of his shoes and socks, and tosses the remainder of Harold’s pants to the far side of the room. John unabashedly slides his face down to press his lips to the groove of Harold’s inner thigh.

Harold fully deciphered the way John’s fingers slid from his knuckles to his wrist at the underground. Their synced code from ages ago, and he knew. John desperately wanted, he _craved_ , and Harold’s already so far gone that he never declines John’s demands. John runs his hands against the length of Harold’s thigh, and kisses the base of Harold’s flushed cock.

Harold poorly disguises his shuttering breath when John’s tongue runs along the length of him. Harold is still radiating an admissible amount of fear, even now, and John recognizes it as if it were his own. They don’t talk about it, never had to, yet the understanding claims them like it was etched into their bones. Harold tastes of skin and salt; pleasant memories of days long past flood John's mind. _God_ , he wants more, more of whatever Harold offers. He cups Harold’s balls in one hand, gently rolls them in his palm, and wraps his mouth around the head of his cock.

He feels Harold flinch slightly, his back curving downwards. John swallows more of him and begins to suck in earnest. Harold’s low guttural moan shoots right down to John’s cock trapped tightly inside his pants, and John subconsciously grinds his free palm against it. His mouth is full of Harold’s musk and John takes as much as he can until the tip is close to the back of his throat. Harold’s hands finally come to rest on the back of John’s head, too lightly to be felt, still afraid that the moment becomes too intimate and they’ll be found.

In a sudden rush of defiance, John eases back and swirls his tongue along the slit of Harold’s cock and under, causing Harold’s nails to rake painfully from his neck into his hair from the sensations. John lets Harold slide out with a wet pop, a small smile on his shining red lips. They may currently exist in a vacuum of emptiness, but things haven’t changed. He wipes his lower lip lewdly with the back of his hand and darts his tongue out to lick at the inside of Harold’s exposed wrist.

The deep unfiltered rawness of Harold’s voice almost had him. “Take off your clothes.” And John desperately holds on to the last shred of his self-control as he clambers off the floor immediately and undresses with as much finesse as he could manage.

The bed creaks and dips under John’s added weight as he stretches himself out sideways, and watches quietly as Harold methodically removes his vest and clothes and sets his glasses down under the lamp at his bedside. Harold’s hands come back to softly touch, running down the expanse of John’s side, caressing the smooth skin of John’s waist. John’s breath hitches when Harold’s hands slide back up to rub a calloused thumb against his nipple.

“ _Harold_.” Is all the warning Harold needs as he follows John’s gaze and takes the condoms and lube from the bedside drawer.

He rolls to lie on his stomach, and Harold trails his fingers down John’s spine to the curve of his ass. There’s a loud click of a lid snapping shut and Harold’s sliding a slick finger over John’s hole. He lets out a soft puff of breath when Harold pushes in; he relaxes instinctively, and takes in a second finger easily.

John shivers when Harold curves his fingers just so, the pad of his finger pressing up against the sweet spot time so conveniently abandoned. Harold pulls his fingers away before John could grind his hips down against them, gathers the wetness that ran down John’s thigh, and presses back in with three.

The familiar rhythm, the way Harold remembers every inch of him like it was only yesterday, and John could practically predict Harold’s next move, his lips scattering kisses along the small of his back. John arches obscenely, putting himself on display, and begs.

“Harold, please.”

Harold’s warmth momentarily leaves him to put on the condom, then strong hands grip his hips as a solid weight firmly settles behind him. He impatiently lifts his hips, feels the shape of Harold’s cock slide against his opening, and softly moans into his pillow.

Harold voice is warm on his ear as he says. “Oh John.”

John’s knees are shaking when the blunt head of Harold’s cock breaches him. He spreads his legs wider, arches his hips higher until Harold fills him completely to the hilt. He takes Harold as deep as he can, and Harold groans, the sound painful and low in his throat. His body remembers the burn, the ache that often burrows itself into the edges of John’s lungs, as Harold starts to move.

John could rush Harold into it, to ask him to thrust faster; but Harold’s willing to draw this out for as long as he can, pulling his cock languidly nearly all the way out, then plunging back in, and it’s precisely what John wants.

“More.” John moans, and purposely clenches down on Harold’s cock when he’s deep inside.

Harold contains what little noise he can to a hiss, presses his forehead to John’s shoulder, and bucks his hips faster. John’s fingers grapple at the sheets, bunching them in his fist as Harold wraps a hand around his dripping cock.

It takes four pumps through the tight ring of Harold’s fist, with Harold rubbing the head of John’s slick cock between his thumb and the second knuckle of his index finger, and John comes, a powerful surging heat coursing through his veins.

The wave that travels through him pulls Harold down along with him, and John feels the crash of Harold’s orgasm as Harold's hips snap to a halt and lets out a choked gasp. 

After, Harold moves off of John and gingerly sets himself down beside him. John doesn’t see much of him, but the light catches onto the mangled starburst of a scar on Harold’s right shoulder. He fights the urge to touch, to wipe away another mark to Harold’s flesh. It’s the first time he’s seen the wound fully healed, and the guilt of letting Harold get shot nearly overwhelms him.

He waits wordlessly as Harold’s breath slowly evens out, watches as his chest goes back to heaving at his normal stoic pace. He closes his eyes when Harold shifts out of bed, and tries to cover his ears from the sound of his door clicking shut.

But Harold simply comes back and wipes him gently clean with a warm cloth, presses a kiss full of a string of random letters that only John knew to his temple, and strokes his hair in with an awful tenderness that immediately lulls John to sleep.

Tomorrow they’ll go back to being two empty capsules that exist because a war forced miles between them. But just for tonight, they’re full and together.

**Author's Note:**

> The PWP first part to my angsty series. I have started something horrible that I can't stop and my heart aches for them but I don't mind it at all. What's Harold/John without angst?  
> Hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did while I wrote it!


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